


Beloved

by RPGgirl514



Category: Sorcery (Video Game), Steve Jackson's Sorcery! - Steve Jackson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, First Kiss, Inspired by Music, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slash, Spoilers for Sorcery 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 21:10:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20453618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RPGgirl514/pseuds/RPGgirl514
Summary: In Mampang, Flanker finds out about the ZEd curse and vows to free the Analander from it.





	Beloved

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by multiple play-throughs of Sorcery 4 while listening to Mumford & Sons’ song “Beloved.” I’ve taken a few minor liberties with canon events.

The Analander had not expected to see Flanker again after their night together in the ravine, so it came as a (not unwelcome) surprise to see the assassin in the Treasury. The other man, clad in his black leathers, was horribly out of place here among the simpering nobles in their satins and silks, but even had he been similarly dressed, the lethal energy of his bearing would have given him away. The Analander himself was covered in mucalytic slime and leopard blood, so they made quite the mismatched pair. He entertained a wicked vision of embracing Flanker to drag him across the dance floor, their bodies pressed flush, until the other man was as filthy as he. Flanker narrowed his dark eyes as if he could read the Analander’s thoughts and did not like them.

The Analander smirked. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’ He snagged a canapé from the hovering tray of a passing waiter and popped it in his mouth.

‘Bold as ever, I see,’ Flanker said.

‘Admit it; you enjoyed the show.’

‘You fight well,’ Flanker conceded. ‘The blade suits you.’

‘This old thing? Well, I suppose it has its uses.’

Flanker stared at him impassively.

‘A joke, my friend. And thank you. I neglected to do so the last time our paths crossed. I did not expect to have another chance, but Effe is generous.’

Flanker inclined his head. ‘To my continued delight.’

‘What are you doing here, anyway? Doesn’t really seem like your scene.’

Flanker eyed a cluster of tittering noblewomen with an expression of extreme distaste. ‘Mingling.’

The Analander snorted. ‘A likely story.’

Flanker looked away. ‘If you must know, I came to evaluate your progress. The Archmage grows in power the longer he possesses the Crown.’

‘I am not afraid,’ the Analander said boldly.

Flanker gave him an appraising look. ‘Perhaps you should be.’

The Analander barked out a laugh and changed the subject. 

‘Mampang has treated you well, then?’ The Analander’s blue eyes sparkled.

‘It has not yet killed me.’

‘Cheers,’ the Analander said, still grinning, and pushed a flute of some pale effervescent drink into Flanker’s gloved hand.

The assassin grimaced. Parties were tedious, and dealing with reckless Analanders even more so. He could not afford to cloud his judgment with drink, not when they were so near their goal. He set the flute down on a nearby table, undrunk, and stepped close to the Analander. ‘Why must you taunt me so? Your flippancy will get you killed.’

The Analander’s exuberant expression sobered immediately. He braced his hands on Flanker’s shoulders, his breath stirring the fold of Flanker’s mask where it was pinned under his ear. ‘You won’t be rid of me so easily, Flanker. I have been cursed with immortality. I am doomed to return to Mampang and retrieve the crown each time I die. I’ve already experienced death, twice, each time more painful than the last.’

Flanker had gone rigid. ‘What can be done?’

‘You know I am a Sorcerer,’ the Analander said. ‘Each known spell has a counterspell. It is how the world remains balanced. A knife upon an edge.’

‘A counterspell must be cast upon you,’ Flanker said. ‘The Archmage—’

‘No,’ the Analander said fiercely, clutching Flanker’s shoulders to the point of pain. ‘I refuse to bargain with evil. My quest remains paramount. I must destroy the Crown. My life is forfeit either way.’

Flanker wrenched his body away, glaring at the Analander. ‘Damnable heroics,’ he said.

‘Not quite so poetic to hear someone you care for going on about their imminent death, is it?’ the Analander said pointedly.

‘It is not the same.’

The Analander shrugged and drained the flute of bubbly liquid. ‘We’re all just swindlestones tossed at the whim of the gods,’ he said, swiping a hand across his mouth. His lips were still shiny, and Flanker’s gaze lingered there.

‘You have thwarted chance before, when you spared my life and bound my wounds. You have turned an assassin’s black heart to one of flesh,’ Flanker murmured, half to himself. ‘Now it is my turn to redeem you.’

The Analander’s expression darkened. ‘Flanker, wait—’

But the assassin had already vanished into the seething crowd. He slipped out of the room like a shadow, and the warm night swallowed him whole.

* * *

Flanker was at a loss for where to even begin looking for magical knowledge in Mampang. It was dangerous to speak with anyone, even to trade small talk, when the Archmage’s spies were everywhere.

He tried the  _ Bony Hand _ first. Better men than he had been betrayed by ale-loosened lips, and Flanker had always made it a habit to frequent such places wherever he travelled, to put his fingers on the pulse of the city. But this tavern was a bust. In the end, Flanker decided to try the monastery—friendly games of chance often divided one’s attention so one did not always realize what secrets had been divulged in an effort to gain an advantage.

The monks nodded to him as he stepped inside, heading for the swindlestones tables. Several pairs were already engaged in games of their own, but there was a solitary monk near the south wall, waiting for a willing partner. Flanker took the seat across from him.

‘Well met, stranger,’ the monk said. The face beneath his hood was well-creased and boxy, as though it had been hewn from hardwood by a novice artisan. ‘Care for a game of swindlestones?’

‘I cannot refuse,’ Flanker responded smoothly.

‘Wagers start at ten gold.’

Flanker drew out his money pouch and placed his bet upon the table. The monk seemed to relax as he pulled out six bone dice, their corners softened by years of use. Flanker closed his hand around the three he was offered.

‘First bid,’ declared the monk.

Flanker and the monk rolled their dice. Flanker peered at his results, shielded behind his hand. Two twos and a three. He glanced at the monk expectantly.

‘One two,’ said the monk.

‘Two twos,’ Flanker countered.

‘Two fours.’

Flanker raised an eyebrow. ‘Three twos.’

‘Three fours.’

The odds were low, and Flanker felt confident as he called the monk’s bluff. Indeed, the monk revealed only one four between the pair of them. The next two rounds fell in Flanker’s favor, and he scooped his winnings deftly into his money pouch.

‘Another?’ asked the monk hopefully.

‘Certainly,’ said Flanker. They fell easily into a rhythm of bidding and calling, their gold changing hands fluidly as each of them won and lost according to Effe’s will.

‘How did you come to follow Effe?’ Flanker asked. ‘One three.’

‘I found the idea of passing the rest of my days playing swindlestones to be most appealing,’ the monk said. ‘Two threes.’

‘It is a pleasant pastime,’ Flanker agreed. ‘Three threes. What sort of life did you lead before?’

‘I was a Sorcerer, studying in the Inner Colleges of Mampang under the tutelage of the Archmage,’ the monk said. ‘Call.’

They showed their hands, and the monk flicked one of Flanker’s dice from the table. It rattled across the floorboards and came to rest under a chair.

‘You served the Archmage?’ Flanker said. He licked his lips.

‘I  _ studied _ under him,’ the monk corrected. ‘One four. It is an important distinction. That was, of course, before the Archmage went mad and locked himself in the Fortress, and the Colleges fell into disrepair.’

‘Two fours,’ Flanker said hastily, hardly paying attention to the game. ‘Tell me of your studies.’

‘We studied all manner of magic,’ said the monk. ‘I was primarily interested in the relationships between spells. Three fours.’

‘Each spell has a counterspell,’ Flanker said, recalling the Analander’s words, ‘keeping the world balanced, like a knife upon an edge.’

‘Yes,’ the monk said, with a small smile. ‘You know of magic, then?’

‘I . . . have met a Sorcerer or two on my travels,’ Flanker said. ‘They bleed and die the same as any other man.’

‘Are you going to make a bid?’ the monk asked pointedly, glancing at his dice.

‘Call,’ Flanker said, and it was only by luck or Effe’s grace that he won the round. ‘So every spell has a counterspell, then?’

‘Yes,’ said the monk, ‘though magic is woven from the stars, and some constellations are exceedingly difficult to align. Some spells can only be cast from a single location.’

‘Is there a way, then, to reverse a spell that condemns a man to immortality?’

The monk was silent for a moment. ‘You start the bidding this round,’ he said.

‘One one,’ Flanker said impatiently.

‘One three,’ the monk countered. ‘And I have not heard of the  _ ZEd _ curse being cast upon someone since the Necromancer Throben’s experiments in Kharé. But that was many decades past. Where have you heard such a thing?’

‘Two threes,’ Flanker said, and pressed on. ‘Can the curse be broken?’

‘Certainly, a Sorcerer could cast the counterspell at the exact moment of death, if the stars aligned,’ the monk said. ‘Three threes.’

‘Call.’ 

The monk was left with one die remaining for the final round.

‘I would like to hire you,’ Flanker said as they rolled their dice. ‘To lift the curse from a friend of mine. To cast the counterspell.’

The monk whistles and shook his head. ‘I do not practice magic anymore,’ he said, ‘and even if I did, I would not do as you ask.’

‘Why not?’

‘Your friend must have powerful enemies to have befallen such a fate, and though I believe in chance, I am not foolish enough to tempt destiny’s wrath. I’m sorry.’

Flanker’s heart clenched. ‘There must be another way to lift the curse.’

Their dice lay forgotten on the table as the monk regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps,’ he said slowly, ‘but it is fraught with danger, and next to impossible.’

‘Tell me.’

‘A tower, within the Inner College,’ the monk said. ‘There is an hourglass inside which, if destroyed, would free any afflicted by the _ZEd_ curse from its effects.’

Flanker leaned forward, his dark eyes boring into the monk’s with a frightening intensity. ‘What must I do?’

Eyes widening, the monk glanced down at his hands, still clutching the bone dice. Flanker noticed a ring upon the monk’s left thumb that he had not seen before. The metal band was tarnished, but its large cushion-set green stone still gleamed.

‘I have gambled away nearly every magical trinket I ever owned, in homage to my goddess,’ the monk whispered. ‘Every one but this ring. Perhaps, it was meant for you. Take it,’ the monk said wildly, and he pressed it into Flanker’s hand. The assassin flinched.

‘But I am no Sorcerer—’ Flanker began.

The monk had taken a scrap of paper and a stick of graphite from his pocket and was scribbling madly. ‘A sigil,’ he said, and thrust it at Flanker. ‘This will teleport you into the tower, but  _ only _ when you are upon its threshold. I will mark it upon your map. An incantation and gesture, united with the ring. I wish you luck and Effe’s grace, assassin—you will need it.’

Flanker stood and bowed slightly in thanks.

‘Take this,’ Flanker said, leaving a tightly-rolled scroll on the dice table. ‘If your goddess wills it, perhaps it will fall into the right hands.’

‘Of course,’ said the monk, pocketing it. ‘Your friend must be very special. He’s quite lucky to have you.’

Flanker nodded. ‘I have taken many lives,’ he said, ‘but his life is the only one worth more to me than my own.’

* * *

This time, the pain nearly drove him mad. The Analander heard distant screaming as the stars aligned, feeling as though he were simultaneously being turned inside out and flayed alive. He landed flat on his back, sending a cloud of dust into the air from his impact. He stared up at the stars, twinkling innocently as though they hadn’t betrayed him. He could not move. The pain had subsided, but it left him feeling hollow and wrung-out, his body heavy with a bone-deep weariness which he allowed to overtake him.

When the Analander woke, he found himself in a simple pallet bed, atop a mattress stuffed with straw. He sat up, blinking to adjust his sight in the half-dark of the room. A small roughly-constructed table stood beside the bed. The Analander found his pack and the curved assassin’s blade propped up against it. Against the far wall was a wardrobe. He looked down at himself, clad in naught but a linen shift. Some kind soul had clearly taken pity on him as he lay unconscious in the street.

His feet were bare against the wooden floor as he padded over the wardrobe, hoping to find his boots, trousers and hooded jerkin. Indeed, he found his own clothing, clearly laundered during his sojourn, but the wardrobe also contained several dark, flowing monk’s habits.

The Analander reached for his jerkin and hesitated. A disguise might be prudent, given how he had met Death so recently. This storeroom seemed mostly disused; he could certainly return for his own clothes, should he need them. With a certainty that the decision had already been made before his arrival, he donned his tunic and trousers, leaving the jerkin, then pulled on a set of robes and tied a simple rope belt around his waist. He found a pair of woven flats to slip on his feet. Idly, he reached into the robe’s pockets. His fingers found a long cylinder, which he pulled out. It was a scroll.

The Analander unrolled the parchment gingerly and began to read. He heard the author’s velvety voice as though he were standing beside him.

_ ‘Beloved, _

_ I think of you each moment I still draw breath. What a curious twist of fate it was that brought us together, but it brings me little pleasure; I have only ever known destiny to be cruel. And yet, I have cleaved my soul to yours. If you are reading this, there remains hope. I shall break the curse that has so afflicted you or die in its pursuit. The sands of time will not hold sway over you; you are mine. _

_ F.’ _

His throat was inexplicably tight, and his eyes burned. The letter’s salutation echoed in time with his pulse:  _ beloved, beloved, beloved. _

‘Foolish assassin,’ he choked out in the empty room, his fingers crinkling the edges of Flanker’s missive. He folded the page into quarters and tucked in back into the pocket of his borrowed robe as he regained his composure.

He had died thrice already since Throben had placed the curse upon him, this time most recently within mere feet of his goal. He had no way of knowing if Flanker’s quest to free him of the  _ ZEd _ curse had been successful. He could not afford to put himself in mortal danger again—but needs must.

* * *

Flanker darted through the alleys of Lower Mampang, avoiding contingents of guards and trench diggers, as well as the less savory characters that thrive in such places. The monk had marked the Inner College on his map, neatly labeling the tower that contained the essence of the  _ ZEd _ curse.

He stopped to catch his breath only when he had reached the stone wall that separated the common folk from untold magic. He considered the wall, finding hand and footholds where he could, and began to climb.

It was not the most arduous climb he had undertaken; certainly the ruined bridge in the Baklands had posed more of a challenge than this. But he paused when he reached the top, sitting for a moment to rest and gaze heavenward, at the stars.

Since he was a boy, magic had given Flanker a feeling of creeping unease, though since meeting the Analander, he had found himself in the thick of it more often. It was truly awe-inspiring, that such small things as stars could be harnessed by one so powerful as the Analander—or the Archmage. He shivered, not entirely from the cold, and made to continue on his way.

Flanker dropped down from the ledge onto a small rocky outcropping where, centuries ago, the mason who had built this wall had laid the stones unevenly. His weight knocked a few pebbles loose from the mortar, and they fell into the dark watery abyss below, barely causing a ripple.

Bridges crossed the chasm, connecting each of the towers. The closest bridge was perhaps as far away as Flanker was tall. He had made longer jumps before, though not without a running start. He bounced slightly on the balls of his feet, then leapt.

Flanker caught the edge of the bridge with both hands and scrambled up. He consulted his map once more, following the bridges until he stood before the tower that contained the hourglass. Flanker took out the monk’s sigil. The green stone ring on his finger was the color of forest moss in the moonlight.

Feeling a bit foolish, he read the words out loud, clumsy and foreign on his tongue. He moved his hands in his best approximation of the gesture the monk had sketched out, and touched the green stone ring to the parchment.

Flanker felt his feet leave the bridge. There was a strange sensation as though he were being folded up and put into the pocket of a giant, and everything went black.

Seconds later, he found himself in a dark room and leapt to his feet, his sword already in his hand. He blinked several times, letting his eyes adjust to the low light. There were no braziers or torches to illuminate the room, but a soft glow to one side allowed him some awareness of his surroundings.

He was inside the tower, quite alone. A spindly wooden chair stood across the room, pulled up to a small, round wooden table. Upon the table was propped a slate, marked with strange chalk markings. Beside the slate was the origin of the only light in the room: a large hourglass, sand falling through its narrow neck. Flanker caught his breath; he almost thought he could  _ hear _ the soft rasp of the sand grains as they rubbed against each other.

Sheathing his blade, Flanker cautiously approached the table and, without thinking about it, sat in the chair. He could not explain why; it just  _ felt _ like the right thing to do. He looked at the slate and again, without deciding to do it or really, thinking about it at all, he used the pad of his thumb to rub out the markings.

Flanker looked across the room at the table and chair, at the slate with its markings restored, and frowned, trying not to panic. The sand continued its inexorable descent within the bulbs of the hourglass. He stood in the shadows, thinking.

Time was not linear within this tower. Would he even be able to destroy the hourglass permanently, or would it protect itself by throwing him back in time whenever he got close? As the assassin pondered it, an even more terrible thought occurred to him: would he himself be stuck in an infinite loop, doomed to destroy the hourglass over and over again for eternity? 

He licked his lips. If that was the case, so be it. His life was forfeit when the Analander’s mercy spared him in the forest. He would gladly lay down his life again for the Analander’s sake.

Flanker strode towards the table and laid a gloved hand upon the top bulb of the hourglass. He half-expected it to speak, or move, or do something to indicate its magical properties, but it was quite still. The sand had completely emptied from the upper bulb. Flanker tapped his fingertip against the glass, then turned it over.

Again he found himself across the room, observing from afar. Even from this distance he could see the sand trickling down, forming the first peak of a pyramidal dune in the lower bulb.

Flanker crossed the room a third time. The upper bulb of the hourglass, suspended in its brass frame, was capped by a small brass fitting. Carefully, he lifted the glass from its frame and unscrewed the cap. He looked through the opening. Sand funneled into the lower bulb, an eddy swirling in the center of its surface. He felt a deep, deep sense of dread.

Flanker took a deep breath and turned the hourglass on its end. Sand streamed from the hole, piling on the floor. He did not replace the hourglass on its frame when it was empty; instead, he turned and threw it against the far wall where it shattered.

Flanker crouched down, examining the sand. It still glowed softly in the darkness, the light pulsing as though it were alive. He dragged his fingers through it, not daring to remove his gloves, but it seemed to respond as normal sand would. He scooped up a handful and stowed it in a pouch at his belt.

He stood, looking around grimly. Now that it was done, he felt momentarily adrift. His eyes caught on the patch of wall where the fateful hourglass had shattered. There now stood a door. There was no way of knowing whether this door would lead him into safety, or further peril. He may have destroyed the hourglass, but the Crown of Kings was still in the grasp of the Archmage, and their journey was not yet at an end.

Flanker hesitated. When had the Analander’s quest taken precedence over his contract with the Archmage? It had not, Flanker decided. He had fulfilled the contract as soon as the Analander had set foot within Mampang. He was free to ally with whomever he chose, and free to take sides as he wished.

Glass crunched under Flanker’s boots as he pulled open the door and exited the tower.

* * *

‘I am here,’ Flanker said, bowing low. ‘I have delivered the Analander into Mampang and fulfilled my contract.’

‘Not yet, you haven’t,’ the Archmage said with a manic grin. ‘The contract has changed.’

Flanker frowned. ‘That is not what we agreed upon.’

‘You’ve been a naughty boy, haven’t you?’ the Archmage said, turning away from him to fiddle with a locked chest against the wall. ‘Gotten into bed with the enemy, so to speak?’

Flanker was glad for his veil as he felt a flush bloom in his cheeks. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’’

The lock clicked and the Archmage lifted the lid of the chest. Flanker glanced towards its contents, but he could not see past the Archmage. He shifted and realized with horror that his boots were stuck to the floor, as if by glue. He brought his hands up to protect himself—or he would have, had they not been bound to his sides with invisible rope. The Archmage turned, and Flanker swallowed hard. In his gnarled hands was the Crown.

‘The Analander will defeat you,’ Flanker snarled, struggling against his unseen bonds. ‘He has slaughtered your Seven Serpents and he will take the Crown from your corpse and destroy it!’

The Archmage paused, a smile on his face. ‘‘It is rather charming, your blind faith in him. Charming, yes, but ultimately unimportant.’

‘He will come. If not for me, then for the Crown.’

‘Oh, I’m certainly counting upon it,’ said the Archmage brightly, and he placed the Crown of Kings upon his grey head. 

Flanker’s mind went blank. He could not remember, for the life of him, why he was here. It did not matter—the Master had need of him, and he would obey. It was his pleasure to serve his Master. 

The Master came to stand before him and removed the veil Flanker wore to cover his face. Flanker could not recall why he wore it in the first place; it clearly displeased the Master and he was better off without it. 

Something niggled at the back of Flanker’s mind. A pair of laughing blue eyes, and gentle calloused hands that bound his hurts. A voice that said his name like a prayer instead of the curse it was.

But then his Master spoke, and the thought was lost, swept away like a leaf in a rushing river. ‘Run along now, pet. Await your lover in the library, and show the Analander how quickly dogs can turn on their masters.’

* * *

Throben’s Doors were just as foreboding this time around, but not as impenetrable, not now that the Analander had gleaned their secrets through painful, fatal trial and error. He discarded his monk’s habit at the stair landing—he wouldn’t need a disguise any longer, and the thick fabric bunched around his legs would only hinder his movement should he encounter resistance.

The Analander made quick work of the four doors, casting the counterspells confidently, but still breathing a relieved sigh when the final knob turned under his hand. He slipped into the tower.

No one had told him, at the onset of his quest, just how many stairs would be involved. There was nothing to mark his progress; no windows to look out over Mampang, and no landings to denote each ascending floor. The Analander panted with exertion. Surely he must be in the clouds by now, or the houses of the gods. He had a sudden stab of suspicion that the staircase was cursed to keep him in ascendant limbo. Even as the thought occurred to him, the Analander rounded the next flight of stairs and found a stained-glass window set into the exterior wall of the tower.

The glasswork was exquisite, the colors vibrant. The window depicted a coiled green snake, waiting to strike. The Analander kept his distance; he would not be surprised to find the window to be a trap of the Archmage. Across from the window was a door leading into the interior of the staircase. With trepidation, the Analander stepped inside.

The rose-gold of dusk washed the room in warm light. No expense had been spared in building this library: furnished in mahogany and velvet, it gave off an air of opulence in spite of the thick blanket of dust over its surfaces. The circular room made up for its modest diameter with the height of its recessed stone bookshelves, stretching high over their heads and packed to bursting with books. An elegant ladder with brass fittings rested against the wall near the single arched window while a richly-dyed rug sprawled over much of the stone floor.

A figure stood near the window as the Analander edged into the room. He tensed, but he felt Effe nudge his hand away from his blade, so he did not draw his sword.

‘Who’s there?’ the Analander called instead, and the figure turned.

It was Flanker.

He looked just as he always had, albeit a bit stiff around the joints, as though his skin concealed gears and cogs rather than muscle and bone. His ever-present mask was absent, giving the Analander his first real look at Flanker’s face, long-jawed and gaunt, with thin lips. But his familiar dark eyes were cold.

‘You should not have come, Analander,’ he said flatly.

The Analander went still. The voice was Flanker’s, but without the warmth he had come to expect from the assassin. This was not the same man who had saved him from a Portal Trap in Kharé, gifted him his own priceless blade in the Baklands, spent a dark night sharing secrets in a High Xamen ravine, and penned a love letter for him to find. Something was terribly wrong.

‘Flanker,’ the Analander said in a low voice, as though gentling a feral Snattacat.

Flanker advanced on him. In one smooth motion, the Analander threw up his arms to harness the stars. The  _ dIm  _ spell knit together in his hands and he gave Flanker an apologetic look before casting the spell upon him. The assassin stopped in his tracks.

‘Analander?’ Flanker said uncertainly, blinking as though awakening from a long sleep.

‘I’m here, love,’ he said. ‘You’ve been bewitched by the Archmage, but I know your strength. Fight it!’

But even as the words left his mouth, Flanker’s confusion melted away and he turned cruel, deadened eyes upon the Analander once more. Flanker lashed out with his blade, and the Analander dodged. A thin line of blood welled up where the tip of Flanker’s sword grazed his arm. He cursed; he had let his guard down at the first sign of the real Flanker.

‘I should have finished the deed in the forest that day,’ Flanker said. ‘You are no match for the Archmage. It would be a mercy to die by my hand.’

The pearl ring shimmered with starlight as the Analander called upon his magic once more, weaving the  _ YAZ _ spell that would render him invisible. But he did not vanish from view; instead, Flanker stumbled and fell to his knees. He cried out in apparent pain through gritted teeth.

‘Sindla help me,’ he ground out. ‘Analander, please. If there is any mercy left in you, please, cut me down. I cannot bear to harm you.’

‘You won’t hurt me, love; I’ve got you,’ the Analander said. Best not to waste time. Before the assassin regained his feet, the Analander dug in his pack for the brass pendulum he carried. Swinging it before him, he bound the coinciding constellation and cast the  _ NAP _ spell upon Flanker, who collapsed in a heap upon the resplendent rug.

The Analander’s heart jumped into his throat as he stowed the pendulum and approached, blade drawn as a precaution. He knelt down and touched the assassin’s shoulder. ‘Flanker?’

Flanker groaned and stirred. The Analander sheathed his blade and helped him into a seated position against the nearest bookcase. He crouched before the assassin. ‘Analander—’

‘I’m here, you stupid man,’ he said affectionately.

‘I tried to kill you,’ Flanker said. ‘I am sorry.’

‘Wouldn’t be the first time,’ the Analander said lightly. ‘Honestly, by this point I’m almost used to it. Besides, it’s not like I would have died forever.’

Flanker clutched at his sleeve. ‘But you would have,’ he said in anguish. ‘I destroyed the hourglass; I broke the curse. You are free and mortal again.’

‘Am I?’ the Analander looked down at himself, then back at Flanker. ‘I don’t feel any different. Are you certain?’

Flanker reached into the pouch at his belt and pulled out a handful of sand, letting it flow through his fingers like water. The Analander cupped his hands to catch it, an expression of wonder upon his face. He dropped his hands and the sands of time scattered across the floor, glittering minutely in the light of the setting sun before going dull.

‘Flanker,’ the Analander whispered, touching his cheek. ‘You are too good to me.’

‘I would do anything for you,’ Flanker said, his dark gaze steady.

The Analander leaned forward and settled his lips against Flanker’s. The assassin stiffened, and the Analander pulled away.

‘I’m sorry—’

‘No, it was not unwelcome,’ Flanker said. ‘I simply have not been touched by another in quite some time, except to cause me pain.’

‘Never again,’ the Analander said fiercely. ‘Not by my hand.’

Flanker smiled, a small, fragile thing. ‘No, beloved. I do believe that.’

The Analander thought his heart might burst in his chest.  _ Beloved, beloved, beloved— _ ‘May I kiss you again?’

‘Please—’

Flanker felt the crush of the Analander’s mouth, lips soft and full against his own. The Analander inhaled, pulling Flanker’s breath from his lungs, and he opened his mouth in want. The Analander slid his tongue along the seams of Flanker’s lips, then slowly dragged it along the ridged roof of his mouth. The assassin groaned. He lost himself in the headiness of the Analander’s touch, pressing closer, needing more—

But then, the Analander broke away, disentangled himself from Flanker and stood up. ‘I suppose we ought to get on with killing the Archmage and destroying the Crown,’ he said, a tad regretfully.

Flanker made a disappointed noise as he also got to his feet, and the Analander chuckled.

‘Don’t worry, love, I’ll be sure to ravish you properly when we are safely back in Analand. Now, are you going to help me defeat the Archmage or not?’

Flanker’s face darkened. ‘I will not rest until he is dead.’

The Analander rifled through his pack and drew out a small clear vial. The liquid inside shimmered, pale gold—Flanker was reminded of the bubbly liqueur served at the Treasury, and with it the Analander’s unquenchable spirit as he rode the thrill of his victory there. He should have kissed him then. 

The Analander uncorked the vial and raised it, as though making a toast. ‘Here goes nothing,’ he said, and drank it down.

‘What was that?’

‘A potion to protect me from falling under the thrall of the Crown,’ said the Analander. ‘The spells I cast upon you should keep you safe.’

‘I trust they will,’ Flanker said. ‘There is no time to waste. I will take you to the Archmage at once.’

The Analander hesitated.

‘Flanker?’ he said in a small voice. ‘I’m afraid.’

Flanker took his hand; squeezed it, briefly. ‘I am here for you.’

* * *

They took the stairs together, hands still clasped together like a lifeline. They paused before the heavy wooden door, its wrought iron lending a sinister glimpse into the evil that lay within.

‘Strike fast,’ Flanker said, and the Analander pushed open the door.

The Archmage was seated in a plush burgundy armchair facing them behind a mahogany desk. The boney crown still perched atop his head. His skeletal hands clutched a mouldy tome, which he appeared engrossed in. He held up one finger, bidding them to wait until he had marked his place with a ribbon and set the book aside.

‘Well, well,’ he said, lounging rather comfortably. ‘It did take you a moment.’

‘Hand over the Crown,’ the Analander said, ‘and your death will be swift.’ There was no trace of the earlier fear he had confided in Flanker.

The Archmage chuckled. ‘Oh dear. That’s it, then; the jig is up? Very well, let’s get on with it.’ He stood up.

The Analander took an involuntary step back, and the Archmage’s eyes gleamed. ‘You fear the Crown and its power, don’t you? You fear the magic within you; the infinite potential in the stars. But you needn’t, Analander. Join with me, and I will show you how to harness your talents. Together, we could be the greatest Sorcerers this world has ever seen.’ He glanced at Flanker and his smile widened. ‘I’ll even let you keep your pet assassin, though I would advise against it. He’ll only drag you down.’

The Analander was silent.

‘Enough of these games,’ Flanker snapped, stepping forward. He reached up to snatch the Crown from the Archmage’s head, but with a great gust of wind, he was propelled backwards and slammed against the closed door. He crumpled to the floor and went still. A trail of blood leaked down his face.

‘Flanker!’ the Analander cried. He glared at the Archmage. 

‘That’s the trouble with spirited pets,’ the Archmage lamented with a sigh. ‘No matter how well you train them, they still have that wild instinct.’

‘He is not an animal; he is a  _ man _ ,’ said the Analander. ‘A good one, too. The best.’

‘All men must die,’ the Archmage said with a dismissive flap of his hand.

‘You’d best prepare yourself, then, for only one of us will die here tonight!’ The Analander threw up a magical shield, and the battle began in earnest.

The Archmage sent a plume of flame towards him. Thinking of the first Throben door, the Analander snatched a blimberry potion from his belt and lobbed it into the flames, calling on the stars. The  _ dOC  _ spell shimmered for a moment before the flames dissipated without even a wisp of smoke. The Analander followed up with a bolt of lightning, arcing between his hands before it leapt at the Archmage. His greying hair stood on end as he froze, the electrical current coursing through his veins and leaving him gasping. He stumbled against the desk.

The Analander pressed his advantage, peppering the other Sorcerer with enchanted pebbles that burst upon impact, calling forth goblins and giants and Snattacats to do his bidding. When the spells had fizzled out, the only person left standing was the Analander, weakened but alive. The Archmage lay crumpled under his desk, where he had taken shelter from the Analander’s summoned creatures, to no avail. His robes and flesh had been torn to ribbons by teeth and claws, and part of his skull had been bashed in by a giant’s club. The Crown had not survived the battle; cracked sun jewels glinted among the tattered remains of a cloth skullcap. Shards of bone littered the floor. The Analander spared the Archmage and the Crown no further attention as he hurried to Flanker’s side.

‘Flanker, love, please don’t be dead,’ the Analander whispered. Flanker couldn’t be dead; he  _ couldn’t. _ Whatever taste of victory at the conclusion of his quest would be only ashes in his mouth if Flanker were to die. He felt for the assassin’s pulse, fluttery under his fingers. Flanker groaned.

‘You’ve certainly been through the wringer today, haven’t you?’ The Analander unstoppered his last blimberry potion and put it to Flanker’s lips. He cupped the back of the assassin’s neck and tipped the healing elixir into his mouth.

‘Help me stand,’ gasped Flanker. The Analander slipped his arm around Flanker’s narrow waist and pulled him to his feet. He was reluctant to let go.

‘Watch your head,’ the Analander said. ‘I’m going to blast us out of here.’

He bewitched a pebble and tossed it upwards. He brought up his free arm to shield his head, turning inwards to curl his body around Flanker as the ceiling exploded in a hail of stone and mortar.

When the dust had settled, they climbed the rubble together and pulled themselves out onto the roof. Full dark had set in. Stars peeked out. The Analander tried to pick out constellations, but they were all wrong. He longed for the familiar night sky of Analand. Soon, he would lay eyes upon it again.

The Analander raised his blade to catch the starlight. He couldn’t be sure the signal, agreed upon so long ago, would be sufficient. He could only hope. As hopeless as Mampang had been, he felt it anew, a small flower blossoming within his breast.

‘Flanker,’ the Analander said hesitantly. ‘I have no right to ask this of you, but I would love for you to accompany me back to Analand. And . . . stay. With me.’

Flanker saw chaos in the Analander’s eyes and felt himself swept up in it. He’d never wanted anything more.

‘Where you go, I shall go, until you no longer wish me to follow.’

The Analander’s wide smile warmed Flanker like sunshine. A gleam of gold caught his eye, circling the spire beneath them. The Eagles had come! It was time.

‘Do you trust me?’

‘Of course.’

The Analander grinned. ‘Then take my hand.’

Flanker did so, and together, they jumped.


End file.
